The Daughter of the Sea and the Sky

by David Litwack

  He shook off his doubts and focused on the man’s face. The Secretary of the Department of Separation had small eyes nearly lost between cheek and brow, and a round, bald head with tufts of hair about the ears. Despite his imposing demeanor, he seemed neither disingenuous nor unkind.

  Getting this meeting had been a struggle. Their business people were eager to work with him, lusting after the markets he represented. These defenders of reason were a different breed, more wary of the Blessed Lands. Contact this high up to find a little girl must have seemed frivolous.

  Not to him. And not to the poetess.

  The poetess had once described the land of her birth as a place where material prosperity dwelt side by side with inner emptiness, where everyone’s companion was a sense of quiet despair.

  He’d done business with many from there who worked for the good of others and tried their best, much as he did. Still, he sometimes wondered: was despair intrinsic to a society or an affliction of the human heart?

  Though their life together had brought happiness, she tended to the darker moods. Now, she wandered their home like a wraith, refusing to hear about progress, the wound too painful to touch.

  The progress was real, though. The message sent from the soulless confirmed that the daughter of the sea and the sky had landed and been found. If only he could get to the right people. Finally, after months of frustration, he took the step he dreaded most, begging the Supreme Leader to intervene.

  He recalled sitting in the austere office, his government’s seat of power, pleading his case and waiting for the Supreme Leader to respond.

  ***

  “I myself have been searching,” his mentor finally said, “for a way to reach out to the soulless.”

  The minister’s heart beat faster, knowing how difficult such a step would be. The Supreme Leader was a virtuous man and had the welfare of his people at heart.

  “But we must not approach the soulless from a position of weakness. We must maintain our dignity and honor. Never will I debase myself to them. So yes, I will reach out for you, but on one condition.”

  The minister bowed his head and closed his eyes, but his ears stayed open.

  “That we withhold the truth from the soulless. That we invent a story, that we say she is a person of importance to our people, and we demand her return.”

  The minister opened his eyes and took in the dark wood paneling behind the desk, inlaid upon it the silver icon symbolizing their Lord—the great all-seeing eye staring out over the Blessed Lands.

  “But how can any good come from the sin of falsehood?” he said.

  The Supreme Leader came out from behind from the desk and rested a hand on the minister’s shoulder. Despite the power of the man’s office, he could feel its warmth.

  “Lord Kanakunai will forgive, my friend, for such a worthy cause.”

  ***

  The secretary’s voice interrupted his thoughts, bringing him back to the stark steel of the land bridge. “My sources tell me you’re a reasonable man, that you’ve made positive changes in your country and are on the leading edge of a new generation that thinks differently about the world. Differently enough that, perhaps in the future, our peoples might be friends.”

  The minister waited while the secretary took a sip of water. His mind dwelled on the word “future.” Of course. Such a high-level contact might start a process that could someday heal the wound that had split the world, precisely the opportunity the Supreme Leader had in mind. The minister would have done the same given the chance, though he cared nothing for politics now.

  “But as to the present,” the secretary resumed, “I and my organization will do what we can. I’ve sent out word. If she’s anywhere in the Republic, she’ll be found.”

  The minister turned away, pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped his brow. The poetess may have given up, but he’d continue the search to its end. He’d tell the poetess nothing yet, lest her despair weigh him down.

  He couldn’t allow himself to despair—not now, not when the search for the living had begun.

  Chapter 31 – A Good Civil Servant

  Winter was nearly over and Carlson’s retirement was approaching. From the barber’s chair, he regarded himself in the mirror, feeling like a boy again. He scheduled his haircuts like clockwork for the third Tuesday of every month, an appointment his assistant knew to keep sacred. Once a month, just enough to keep the hair off his ears and the back of his neck clean.

  The barbershop was a throwback, not one of the newer salons but more like the one his father had brought him to as a child. He breathed in the smell of shaving cream and musk oil, and exhaled a sigh of satisfaction. The zealots were right about one thing—there was something reassuring about tradition.

  Even if he had to wait, he always insisted on the same barber, a plump-faced man named Charlie, who liked to chat mostly about sports. He’d raise a question, snip three times, and then provide the answer himself, punctuating each comment with a tsk-tsk if the local team had lost, or a chuckle if they’d won.

  A glass case below the mirror held a photogram of three plump-faced boys, all dressed in uniforms. Behind them loomed a faded box of cereal with a picture of a star striker from twenty years ago. Next to it lay a retired whisk broom, its years of service done. Things were not discarded here, but honored for their memories.

  Carlson relaxed as Charlie snipped. Soon would come the best part, the hum of the hot lather dispenser, the warmth as Charlie dabbed the lather on the back of his neck and around his ears. Then the stropping of the straight razor on the leather strap—no power trimmers here—and the razor so sharp, he’d hardly feel its touch. He noted the final flourish waiting on the counter, a shaker of ultrafine talc.

  As Charlie completed his stropping, Carlson felt a vibration in his pocket. Charlie hesitated with the razor poised as Carlson pulled out his government-issued secure communicator and read the display.

  “I’m sorry, Charlie. It’s my assistant. She should know better than to bother me here.”

  He replaced the communicator in his pocket, tilted his head back, and relished the first stroke of the razor.

  The buzzing started again. This time, a message displayed:

  Call at once. Urgent.

  The retirement clock on his desk was counting down. What was the number when he left? Twenty-nine days and an afternoon’s worth of hours. He leaned back and tried one more time to relax, but before Charlie could resume, he tossed the striped cutting cape off and threw up his hands. The spell had been broken.

  “This never happens, Charlie. I’m afraid we’ll have to end it here. Just clean me up, please.”

  The barber unceremoniously wiped his ears and the back of his neck, then offered the talc as consolation.

  Carlson waved it off. He was a half step out the door before he realized he’d forgotten to pay. He rushed back and handed Charlie his fee plus a generous tip.

  In the privacy of his car, he contacted his assistant.

  “I’m so glad you called,” she said.

  He waited a moment to let his irritation settle; no sense taking it out on her. “What’s so urgent?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what else to do. It was the secretary himself.”

  “The secretary of what?”

  “Of the department.”

  Carlson’s mind raced. In his thirty-two years, a district manager had called him once. The notion that the secretary should call was absurd. “You can’t possibly mean that secretary.”

  “Yes, that one.” Her tone was clipped and tense. “He said he sent you a secure message for your eyes only. He left his personal number. You’re to give him a response as soon as you’ve read it.”

  Carlson removed the communicator from his ear and stared at it, then set it back in place. “I’ll be right there.”

  ***

  Back in the office, he hung his coat on the hook by the door and turned on his desktop communicator so it would warm up by the time he
’d poured coffee. The screen flickered and firmed. Too many messages as usual, but the one he was seeking glared out in red—highest priority.

  He resisted the urge to open it right away, instead taking two sips of coffee before sitting down. Then he clicked and read.

  Security: Top Secret

  Priority: Most Urgent

  Subject: Seeking refugee from the land of the zealots

  We have reason to believe a child who traveled here from across the sea is loose in our midst. Timing matches your filing #201476 from Sept 1 of last year as well as your queries sent to the land bridge over the subsequent months. She is a special refugee and needs to be returned to department custody immediately. Priority cannot be overemphasized. If you recognize the girl in the attached image, notify the secretary at once.

  The secretary’s personal comm code followed.

  Carlson moved the pointer over the attachment. He kept telling himself the chance of a match was slim, a coincidence of timing. Despite claiming the sea and the sky as parents, Kailani hardly seemed important enough to move the head of this giant bureaucracy to find her.

  He clicked.

  The photogram opened. No, not a photogram but an image of a drawing. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and rubbed the smudges off the screen. The girl in the image was younger, less pale, and more robust than the child he remembered—not a perfect match. Yet even from the screen, the ocean-blue eyes reached out to him, touching places in his heart he’d almost forgotten were there. He thought of Miriam and wondered what she was up to at this hour. He pictured his own daughter as a child curled up in his lap.

  He’d been a good civil servant with an unblemished record for more than thirty-two years. The retirement clock read twenty-nine days, three hours, forty-one minutes and a steadily diminishing number of seconds. If he ignored the resemblance between the image on the screen and the child on the farm, perhaps his remaining time would pass without incident.

  She was a distraught child, nothing more. Who knew what had scarred her in the land of the zealots, what had driven her to cross the ocean alone? Who knew what her government would do to her if she were sent back? Now she was in good hands, safe and secure, ready to grow up in the land of reason where she’d surely thrive. Everything was in order for her tribunal.

  He glanced up and saw his ancestors glaring down at him from their brass frames. Disobedience was not in his genes. He dutifully scrolled to the secretary’s private code....

  ...but his finger refused to call.

  He knew as well as anyone how the bureaucracy could chew people up. With twenty-nine days, three hours, and forty-one minutes left, he couldn’t bring himself to surrender Kailani. After all, it wasn’t a perfect match. He could claim oversight on his part—ineptitude, not disobedience.

  He set aside the government-issued secure communicator and typed a message instead:

  No match found.

  Chapter 32 – A Refuge for Lost Souls

  Winter fell harshly on the Northern Kingdom, harsher still for old folks whose bones felt the cold more intensely. Some days, Sebastian dreaded getting out of bed, afraid his knees might buckle and no longer support him. This morning, as he slogged through the slush to his office, the stiffness in his joints was least on his mind.

  He stopped to take in the view. The spruce trees that lined the path had been coated overnight with a dusting of snow and looked like ladies-in-waiting to the great house. He inhaled the cold through his nose, savoring the aroma of the evergreens. The farm had become like a second wife to him, a soul mate—and his soul mate prospered.

  The new generator hummed along, and the bank balance had grown large enough to contemplate renovating the great house. And why not? The grand dame deserved it, its sitting room host to a flow of pilgrims who’d provided the farm’s newfound stability.

  For the time being, Jason co-existed with Benjamin, Helena and her mother had reconciled, and Kailani seemed to be thriving. All that remained was for the tribunal to do the reasonable thing and turn permanent custody over to Jason and Helena. Perhaps, instead of going back to Albion Point, they’d raise her on the farm.

  On the top step of the great house, Sebastian paused to kick the snow off his boots, and then gazed up, letting the sun warm his face. Monday, the first of March, a prelude to spring.

  Once in his office, he set tea to brewing and settled into his high-backed chair. He’d just started skimming through the day’s mail when his communicator buzzed.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  There was a delay, as if the caller expected a more formal greeting. “Yes, may I speak to the person in charge?” The voice sounded tinny and official.

  “That would be me. I’m Sebastian, managing director of the farm. Who’s this?”

  “My name is Henry Carlson. I’m a chief examiner for the Department of Separation.”

  Sebastian frowned. The next inspection wasn’t until June and all the paperwork had been filed on time. The framed permits on his wall were current and in order. “What can I do for you, Mr. Carlson?”

  “I have a matter I need to discuss. I’d like to set up a meeting.”

  “A meeting. Of course. We’re always happy to meet with the department, but we’re not due for an inspection for a few months. When would you like to meet?”

  “I plan to come there tomorrow.”

  “Well, I don’t think—”

  “It has to be tomorrow.”

  “Very well, then.” Sebastian hoped the chief examiner wouldn’t notice the irritation in his voice. “Tomorrow it shall be. Could you give me some idea of—”

  “It’s about one of your residents.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, trying to buy time. “But can’t we resolve it without meeting? We’re a long way off the beaten path, and I’d love to save you the trip.”

  There was a pause, as if the chief examiner was tempted by the offer.

  “No,” he finally said. “I need to do this in person.”

  “Well, can you at least tell me which resident you’re coming to visit?”

  “I’m not coming for a visit.”

  Sebastian could hear a shuffling of papers, then anguish.

  “It’s about a girl you have staying there. Her name is... Kailani.”

  ***

  With the heel of his hand, Carlson rubbed the frost off the kitchen window of his tiny flat, the one he’d been exiled to after he and Miriam had divided the spoils. He peered through the cleared spot, checking the weather, then pulled on his driving gloves and headed out the door.

  He settled into the seat of his sedan and arranged what he used to call the field trip essentials. He pulled a map from the storage compartment and folded it on the passenger seat so it displayed the first leg of his journey, then set his sunglasses on the dashboard in case the overcast burned off during the drive. He positioned his coffee in the center of the cup holder and started the engine. Before putting it into gear, he checked his communicator one last time.

  Please let the trip be canceled.

  No such luck. He groaned, yanked the shift lever, and pulled out of his designated space.

  If all went well, four hours to go.

  Less than ten miles from the city, he encountered a garden of cones on the highway, first blocking one lane and then another for no apparent reason.

  Three hours passed before he finally came upon the first signs of country. In the old days, he’d often been sent north to provide security for diplomats meeting at the land bridge. He’d relished such trips back then, a diversion from the routine. Now that his retirement clock was ticking down, he preferred the routine.

  His back ached whenever he had to drive for more than an hour. He arched his spine, stretching the muscles until his lower back stopped cramping, but there was no relief from the secretary’s voice burning in his ears.

  “How could you miss such an obvious resemblance, Carlson?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Secre
tary. I thought it was a different girl.”

  “Aren’t you people trained to look for details?”

  “We are, but you gave so little information.”

  “The situation is sensitive.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts. You’ve been told all you need to know. Now get up there and bring the girl back. And if you screw up again, I swear I’ll find reason to fire you for cause. Do I make myself clear?”

  “I’ll do my best—”

  “Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Fired for cause. Carlson knew what that meant—invalidation of his pension and loss of the peaceful retirement he’d earned after thirty-two years. All because he’d taken a risk to keep Kailani safe.

  Yet given the chance, he’d do it again. It would have worked if not for the photogram.

  The damned photogram.

  How could Jason and Helena have allowed the child’s image to be captured, much less posted on a public network? And the sanctimonious messages that accompanied it! What were they thinking? No wonder the department was all over Kailani—a blatant violation of her probation. Had he known, he would’ve made the trip to the farm just to reprimand them.

  Now he had a better reason to go: not to save his pension, but for the little girl with the face of an angel. For whatever reason, the powers that be wanted her back. He needed to be with her for the handoff, to do what he could to ease her transition to the incarceration that likely awaited her.

  If only the drive were shorter. If only his back didn’t ache. If only the landscape he was heading into wasn’t so bleak.

  The road narrowed to two lanes and rolled with the terrain, forcing him to cut his speed in half. Beyond the mountains hung a gray and comfortless sky. The ribbon of black ahead showed little sign of life—no people, no wildlife, not so much as a sparrow on the power lines. The snow lay smooth on either side, with patches of blue ice where the wind had polished it clear, a sea of white and blue right to the edge of the pavement.